


Live to See the Day

by draculard



Series: Nightthrawn 15 Day Ficlets [14]
Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Because it's sexy that's why, Blood and Injury, Ficlet, Hurt Nightswan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightswan Lives AU, Post-Battle of Batonn (Star Wars), Thrawn in Stormtrooper Armor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29705865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: After the Battle of Batonn, Thrawn pulls a badly-injured survivor out of the rubble.
Relationships: Nevil Cygni | Nightswan/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Series: Nightthrawn 15 Day Ficlets [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158710
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Live to See the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Day 14 Prompt, "Raspy."
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too.

He walks the perimeter himself in the armor of a stormtrooper, poking through the rubble for signs of survivors. There aren’t many; the blast has killed everyone inside Batonn’s shields, and most everyone who was unfortunate enough to be caught directly outside. As he rounds the corner, he finds the shattered remnants of an aboveground bunker; corpses litter the ground, many of them in civilian-made body armor. 

He stops, lifts a stone from the pile, finds a pauldron there with a starbird painted on the shoulder. Blood oozes from the other side, congealed and tacky; he doesn’t need to turn it over to know there’s still a piece of human flesh inside. But as he moves it aside, determined to dig deeper even if it’s futile, he hears something:

A raspy whisper of a groan, so faint that if it weren’t for his helmet’s auditory supplements he might have missed it. Thrawn pauses, head tilted, waits for another sound to clue him into the source’s location. 

Nothing comes.

He stands, surveys the area as he reaches for his comm. An outpost, outside the shields but still within communications range to any Rebels inside — a dangerous location for a commander, strategically helpful but perhaps not worth the risk. But an ideal position for a commander who knows he will die today regardless of what he does. 

Thrawn turns his comm to the proper channel and calls for help.

* * *

The man they extract from the rubble is badly burnt, but conscious enough to react to the sight of a stormtrooper’s helmet. His eyes flicker open; his pupils shrink to pinpoints, adrenaline igniting inside him as if he has any chance of fighting an enemy off right now. He holds perfectly still — holds his breath, too — waiting to see what the troopers will do. Kill him, capture him.

Thrawn takes his helmet off, shows Nightswan his face. He pretends not to notice the way the other troopers go still, a ripple of discomfort surging through the crowd as they realize the sergeant in charge of them is not a sergeant at all. Those who don’t recognize him as their commander still recognize him as a non-human, and he can see them glancing at each other uneasily from the corner of his eye. 

To Nightswan, he says, “We have a hover gurney here to transport you to the medical tent. Your injuries will be treated there by Doctor Kalonia.”

The name-dropping doesn’t register with his stormtroopers, but he watches as the tension leaks from Nightswan’s body, eyelids drooping, pupils dilating to a normal size. Thrawn’s suspicions are confirmed; Kalonia’s Rebel sympathies are well-known not just to ISB, then, but to the Rebellion as well. For now, it serves him; she won’t neglect her patient.

“I’m going to lift you onto the gurney now,” says Thrawn, gesturing for help from two of the larger troopers. He keeps his eyes fixed on Nightswan. “I will accompany you to the medical tent as well. Is that acceptable?”

Nightswan doesn’t exactly nod. His lips thin; his chin inclines. He seems unable to move his head any more than that. Thrawn studies him briefly, just to make sure he isn’t being stoic about some hidden injury — then, with the utmost gentleness, he slips his hands underneath Nightswan’s arms and lifts. The troopers support his legs and back, and Nightswan’s head lolls back against Thrawn’s abdomen as they shift him to the gurney in one quick move. There, it’s Thrawn who arranges his arms and legs, makes sure he’s as comfortable as possible before he gives the order to move on.

He walks alongside the gurney all the way back to the medical tent. He keeps his eyes forward.

He doesn’t notice Nightswan reaching for him until he feels the pressure of the other man’s fingers against his hand.

* * *

It's a long night, a long surgery, and Thrawn is too busy to wait by Nightswan's bedside until he wakes. But the moment he gets word that the Rebel is stirring, he's there. It's a simple task to manage; he's put off his own promotion ceremony as long as possible, demurring each time he's contacted, using the battle cleanup and his 'missing' commander as an excuse. High Command rarely bothers itself with matters of surveillance on Outer Rim worlds; they won't know he's obscuring the truth for months. 

He watches Nightswan's eyelids flutter, feels a cold twist in his gut that he can't quite name. Thrawn always has a plan — but he still hasn't decided what to say when Nightswan wakes. If he can't bring himself to speak of Batonn yet, even in private, even to colleagues and friends, then how can he explain what happened to the man affected by it the most? And how can he assure Nightswan that he's safe without explaining how the city fell? More importantly, how can he expect Nightswan to believe him, if he cannot even keep his own subordinates, Governor Pryce included, in line?

He's lost in his thoughts as Nightswan blinks, eyes dazed, and stares up at the ceiling. Thrawn's face becomes a mask as Nightswan's eyes clear up and shift his way. He knows how he looks: hard and unfeeling, distant and far too calm; an expression that unnerves humans, makes them uneasy, does nothing to comfort them.

Nightswan's face softens into a melancholy smile.

"You too, huh?" he says, his voice hoarse. He lifts a shaky hand, rests it heavily over his chest. Over his heart, as if it's aching.

Thrawn stares at Nightswan's trembling fingers and feels his mask begin to crack. 


End file.
